The Silent Geometry

The morning pulls itself taut across the angular ribs of the high-rises, a wash of pale saffron breaking against the concrete spine of the city.

Down below, the streets hum with a quiet, mechanical blood, a rhythm composed of braking wheels and the hurried scrape of leather on asphalt.

We move in straight lines, a geometry of intersecting intents, ignoring the curve of the sky above, which holds everything in its soft, blue palm.